For What It's Worth

By Muktha Jangam

All it took was to let your name sit on my ribs

and I suddenly realise I simply aren't a rumor anymore;

whenever shall my word prevail over these worlds—

the ripples my mother and I keep dancing on,

on the edge of this bed, where my best friend solemnly declares herself as my personal clone,

each story that my doorknob promises to steal for me,

by the time I am aware of my lone toothbrush,

for the longest minute, I forget to be younger—

carefree than most, thoughtful but very plain.

It's November and yet I am due for an impression:

can I nibble the heartbeat on your wrist, love;

whatever I write of life, it can be yours 

until I crooned poetry to keep you company

after it's been a millennium since we died 

and now, we are too rested to heave into stardust.

I go out into the world everyday to get homeschooled:

understand nothing really is easy on the eyes;

from the slants on someone's forehead,

I effortlessly tire myself out than get it all straight;

how can I tell you I needed to become their Earth-

somewhere children aren't afraid to laugh to tears.

We mirror each other, too hopeful for Time to die out on us:

how else are we supposed to contain this;

entertain the facade of another morrow,

bemoan lesser in the mist of nightly endeavors.

For days, we lived.

Sometimes, we relentlessly endured.

In the rest, we just try to survive.

But there, right in the middle— 

we smiled and loved a whole lot more.

By Muktha Jangam